


He Was Six

by HowardR



Series: He Was Young [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (probably), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Basilisks, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Feelings, Feels, Harry Potter Has a Pet Snake, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry Potter is the Heir to the House of Black, Heir of Slytherin Harry Potter, Homelessness, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's gen but they're like eleven wait a bit, Long, Meddling Kids, Mystery, POV Third Person, Runaway Harry, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Slytherin, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Snakes, The angst is there but it's the bedrock for a character so lots of angst but not much mention of it?, Time Skips, We skipped the Diagon Alley visit for a reason folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowardR/pseuds/HowardR
Summary: Tom's life was a dark hell of misty, weeping rains and black, cloudy skies. The pain of hunger was his only friend, and the need to survive, his only ally.And, for these reasons, he never let anyone know that his name had once been Harry Potter.At least, not until the letter came.
Series: He Was Young [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688506
Comments: 19
Kudos: 131





	1. Prologue: When He...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Talk of abuse, trauma, and grief.

Harry James Potter was a mere one year old when he was left upon the doorstep of the Dursley residence; Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey. Minerva McGonagall lingered for only a moment, looking longingly at the child of her favourite student, before vanishing on the spot with a dull ‘ _ crack _ ’.

Harry James Potter was one year old when he set eyes upon Petunia Dursley for the first time. One year olds were incapable of higher thought, and so Harry thought things that we cannot understand.

But, in our language, his thoughts were best summarized by -  _ I don’t like her eyes. Dull blue, grey blue, hazy blue, smoky blue. Smoky with deception and loathing, and not love or delirium. Not a hint of Mommy’s piercing green, death green, or Daddy’s happy hazel, loving hazel. _

Harry James Potter was two years old when he wondered why Dudley got presents when he didn’t. When he tried to ask, he got the belt.

Harry James Potter was three years old when he wondered why the Dursleys hated him. He hoped Mommy would come home soon - even if she  _ was _ a drunk.

Harry was four when he decided that the Dursleys were liars. They lied about a lot - but there was only one thing he was sure of.

_ The scar etched forever into his skull was from no car accident. _

Harry was five when he went to school for the first time, and decided he liked it. The children there had so many different eyes -  _ not like Dudley, eyes grey, flat grey, dead grey, longing grey. They thought it a gift that Petunia let him have so much, but in truth, he was cursed - _ and they smiled real smiles that weren’t malicious or delirious. And their eyes -  _ green, so green, green like Mom, but not Mom, darker greens, flatter greens, forests and bushes and pine needles - _ and he liked reading. When he read at home, they tried to stop him, but here they had a lot of books; though most of them were overly simple.

Harry was five when he took home his first report card, and got the belt for getting better grades. He laughed at it, while tears streamed down his face. They thought he had finally cracked under the strain of that  _ freakishness _ \- there was nothing to laugh at, after all.

But Harry laughed anyway, purely because it wasn’t funny.

Harry was five when he disobeyed a direct order for the first time, and went into the attic.

Harry would never know it was locked. Because, as his fingers opened the door, they crackled and popped with magic no-one could see, and the lock’s tumblers fell away like leaves in Autumn.

And Harry found an old, dusty box, tucked into the shadowiest corner, and opened it.

Inside, he found a single photograph with a broken frame.

It was of his mother.

He stared at it, for a very long time, scarcely daring to breath. And then, he slipped the photo gingerly out the broken frame - ignoring the tinkling laughter of broken glass falling - and folded it once, putting it safely into his pocket.

And there was a small stack of unopened letters, all addressed to his aunt, form his Mom.

And he knew, that someone had heard him.

It was his birthday, in just ten minutes. He didn’t know who had heard - but they had. And they had answered with this.

Because every year, he wished for just one thing.

_ I want to see Mom again. _

And they had granted that wish.

Harry was five when he sat in an old dusty attic, the moonlight dripping down on him from the circular attic window, and decided this wasn’t what Mom would have wanted.

He waited those last ten minutes, packing the few things he owned. A single, small notebook that was already nearly full, two broken pencil halves both nearly worn down to the nub, and a stolen jacket that he had taken from the school lost and found, claiming it to be his.

And when the twelfth ring struck, piercing the air, from the clock tower down the block, Harry James Potter made his escaped under cover of moonlight, never looking back.

And thus, Harry was six when he ran away from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Notes?
> 
> This is mainly set up for later, and the tone will probably get more than a touch darker. And I know, he isn't even called Tom yet, but trust me, we'll get to it.
> 
> Get ready for a bumpy ride - at least, if this fic comes out how I'm imagining.


	2. A Rising Morningstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a new name and does something stupid, but fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Heavy talk, particularly in the beginning, of suicidal thoughts, depression, loss, starvation, theft, and loneliness. We may return to Tom's past later on, but for now, this will easily be the heaviest chapter of this fic. You have been warned.
> 
> This all belongs to J. K. If she wanted to sue a pathetic little bug like me, she could, and she's better at writing than me anyway, so I don't mind.

Harry was intelligent.

Now, here is where we are forced to make an important distinction. Harry was certainly smart - he could learn damn quick, and it was obvious just from looking at his eyes that he was by no means a dull boy.

He was also clever. He had common sense and self preservation galore, and he could wield a knife just as well as plenty of the adults he had been forced to interact with.

And thus, Harry was intelligent. To be smart meant he could acquire knowledge, to be clever meant he could apply it, and he could do both of these things with distinction.

He was  _ not _ knowledgeable.

This is the kind of boy Harry Potter was, and, in the end, it was what made his life worth living.

At the Dursleys, he had never really thought about such questions. Things like his worthiness to continue to live were questions one only really had to worry about if they had nothing else to think of. Sure, many nights he had sat in his cupboard and tried to think of anything other than the dark beast gnawing at the edges of his stomach, but it had never really occurred to him that living was a  _ choice _ .

But now, he lived at night. He walked the earth with feet blistered and broken, and made a living by taking the livelihood of others. He was like an animal - he had survived because he was the fittest, and had never really  _ lived _ . The moon was his only friend on lonely nights, and music sang in his skull to fill the thoughts he should have learned to think.

And so, the only thing to do was think those thoughts he  _ shouldn’t _ have learned.

It hurt, to think of the life he could,  _ should _ have had. His parents may have been drunks, and yet, his image of them was light and happy in the dark mists of his haunted life.

And yet, he thought. It was what kept him sane. It was what kept him  _ Harry _ .

And, sometimes, he would yearn for death. There was nothing to live for, he thought, in the darkest corners of his desperation. Nobody would know he had ever lived, and the only effect he would have would be the inconvenience of whoever had to clean up his body. Just a single length of rope and some experimentation, and his suffering would end.

There was nothing to life for. No _ body  _ to live for.

In earlier days, he lived for his parents. They would have wanted him to live. And yet, with the dark mists and rains of black in the depths of his mind, thoughts crawled often, and questions were solace. And so, he questioned.

They may have wanted him to live. But like  _ this _ ? Living from the produce stolen from people’s mouths? Living at the deficit of the world? The parasite of society, nobody to care about him but as a nuisance?

Would his parents have condemned him to this everlasting torment?

Sure, maybe one day, when he was old enough he could get a job. But  _ twelve years _ ?  _ Twelve years _ living as nothing but a parasite?  _ Twelve years _ living against what little morals he had?  _ Twelve years _ living this  _ waking hell _ ?

Some of it may have passed already, but eleven years, six years, hell, even one month was too long to live this life.

His parents - had they wanted  _ this _ ?

No.

And yet, he lived still. And yet, every day, he grew paler and thinner, lighter, faster, closer to the description of a corpse - and yet, his blood still pumped, his heart still thundered, and his breath still trembled.

And yet, his soul still yearned for freedom. To know life as more than a husk of itself.

Why did he go on? Still, why did his heart thunder? Every rattling breath he took was merely a deficit to himself and the world he stole from, so why continue to breathe?

And God, if it didn’t hurt.

And yet, he lived.

Because he was intelligent. Because, still, his heart yearned to  _ know _ . Because, still, he read every book he grabbed faster than he ate the food he managed to steal. Still, he had matches to light candles, and the flames of them flickered onto the pages which brought his life meaning.

Because he was smart.

Because he was clever.

And because he was  _ trying _ to be knowledgeable, despite the deficit he was playing at.

But oh, if he didn’t still some days yearn for death. The days that all the words were read, and all the food was eaten, and his breaths were labored from the effort, not of doing, but of merely  _ living _ . An effort that grew heavier and heavier upon his breast every passing day.

But still, the days did pass. Still, the sun set, and rose, and called to him with the sunshine so beautiful he could sometimes love the world that cracked him so.

He wasn’t broken. But he was certainly cracked.

And yet, something in him bore the pressure, the mighty Atlas holding the dark, weeping mists that threatened to overwhelm him.   
  


Some days, at his most dreamlike moments, when he truly fancied himself drawing closer to the wings of death, he could see his mind. That love, that passion, like the steel pyramid holding the lasts remnants of humanity, powered by the last electricity the world held. And the ruins outside, shambling thoughts that sat, patient, waiting for the lights to die out.

And it rained.

The world is really beautiful, he would think. Pity that it has thorns.

And yet, he lived. It was like living a waking nightmare - but he lived it still.

He never tried to go back to the Dursleys.

Even in these heavy times, there were some lengths he didn’t stoop to. Those eyes… blue eyes. Hazy eyes. Smoky eyes.  _ Malicious _ eyes.

_ Like a waking nightmare indeed. _

And yet, that nightmare was his life - and he lived it. He lived it for many years. Maybe not twelve, but still - one month was too long to live this hell.

His name wasn’t Harry. Not anymore. It occurred to him that it never really had been.

He had been Freak, at the Dursleys. The boy who wept. The boy who, when commanded ‘go to your room!’ went to the smallest cupboard. The boy whose only friends were spiders.

And, nowadays, his name wasn’t Harry. His name had only been Harry when he lived for his parents, live  _ because _ of his parents. Now, he lived only for himself.

The only time his name had truly been Harry was the night he ran away. The night the blisters first began to grow on his feet, and the thing that kept him running was the picture of his mother in his pocket.

But now, he had given himself a new name. It was even a full name, for all that was worth. Though the first name was the only really important part.

His name was Tom. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen it. But, one day, he had stared in the mirror, and thought that the boy looking back at him was Tom. He had grinned at the boy, and found that the boy scowled back.

Though he hadn’t smiled in a while. Maybe he had done it wrong?

And so, that was who he was. He, of course, came up with the rest at a later date, from his favorite stories.

_ Tom Rumpelstiltskin Morningstar. _

It was overly-dramatic, of course - though, in his defence, he was six at the time. Tom was his name, a rather simple one, especially considering the others. Rumpelstiltskin - in honour of the woman who could spin gold from straw, or rather, the little man who did it for her. He may be cruel, but in the end, the girl struck a deal - and, in the same vein, the little man struck a deal, as well. One that he honoured.

It was a good lesson - to think before acting. And, as a plus, another lesson - names have great power. It was good nobody would ever know his original name, then.

And morningstar. The devil - the morningstar. An odd choice - who wants to be Lucifer himself, after all? - but one he thought fit him.

Morningstar. The one who fell from heaven to the very depths of hell.

He, too, had lost his paradise. The only difference being, he had never had his to begin with.

And, in the depths of Hogwarts, the pulse of magic made the quill write a new name. It shivered oddly as it did, the magic of a dark-haired boy’s choice still reverberating through it - and the name  _ Harry James Potter _ vanished from the long list of students to be read at the sorting.

Thus, the name was shaky with the vibrations of the quill as it wrote.

_ Thomas Rumpelstiltskin Morningstar. _

Life truly was hell.  _ Give up all hope, ye who enter here _ , indeed.

And it was thus, that Tom lived, for  _ five long years _ .

* * *

Tom didn’t do much. And thus, he was doing nothing when the letter arrived on his eleventh birthday.

He had learned to steal. He had learned to pickpocket. He had learned to vanish into a crowd, and how to wield a knife, and how to kill a man without feeling a spark of guilt.

He had not learned to repress the shock he showed, for just a flash, when a brown owl flew through the window of his house.

Well, ‘his’. It was abandoned, so he counted it as his, but really, it was nobody’s. He had just happened upon it first. It was good enough for him - he could light his candles, it wasn’t too drafty, and it had a fully functioning mirror.

Though the last point may really be more of a deficit. Something about looking in a mirror always made him uneasy. The staring form of himself, eyes black and haunted, fingers thin and twitching.

Or maybe it was something else. The sunkenness of his cheeks, maybe. Or the sharp edge of his cheekbones. Or maybe his paleness.

He would look almost aristocratic, if it weren’t for the fact that every one of these were overly obvious. An aristocratic face had only a hint of these qualities - but Tom nearly looked like a skeleton.

Mr. Morningstar, skeleton extraordinaire. It had a nice ring to it, but when made physical, it made him look rather  _ disarming _ .

Or maybe  _ alarming _ would be a better word. Maybe, though, it was more the way those features were sculpted that made him look so unsettling. The marble, immovable face that never smiled, the set line of the sharp chin, the slight crookedness of his nose from being broken one too many times. Maybe it was the lack of that small half-smile that seemed to always be on a child’s face, permanently radiating joy. Though, eleven year olds have usually grown out of that anyway.

Or maybe it was the  _ eyes _ . Those eyes, that nearly begged to be expressive, with that death green color that made them so distinctive. Those eyes that wanted to express the deepest pits of his emotion, and yet showed only the harsh shine of iron curtains closing around his heart.

He was short, too - something most teenagers would scowl at anyway. And yet, it somehow didn’t detract from his expressiveness.

The curtains opened for the first time in years, and showed a small spark of shock when the owl flew into the long since broken window. It was only a spark, though, gone before it had a chance to really flare.

He stared into those bright yellow eyes, and found in them not a hint of remorse. Not a hint of the pity that usually twisted the faces of the few strangers who deemed to glance at him. But there wasn’t malice, either - again, unlike the strangers on the street.

Instead, the owl seemed to stare at him with a kind of detached curiosity, as you may look at an ant. What is his life like? What thoughts does he think? What guides his unknowable path?

But, when he threatens to bite you, you squash him like the bug he is. You may show curiosity, but even that only extends so far.

It was the look of a creature who would eat you if it were large and hungry enough.

I smiled at the creature, and felt strain in my cheeks. Still, it came out feeling more natural than it had in a long time.

Tom had been rather startled when he had truly realized that he had forgotten how to smile - or maybe he had just never known in the first place. Either way, he had been practicing in the mirror ever since, giving it at least ten minutes a day if only to distract him.

It still felt unnatural, but he was getting better.

The owl didn’t smile back. Instead, it stuck a leg out at him, and Tom was rather startled to note that there was a letter tied to it.

He walked forward with even steps, each one silent. He had long since learned to walk without a sound. He knelt, flicking the hair out of his face, and hesitantly untied the letter from the owl.

“Let me get that for you, buddy.”

Tom felt, again, a sense of surprise. He had rarely felt so much in one day before.

He probably hadn’t spoken in at least a year. There was no need - not when he had too much pride to stoop to begging. And so, his voice came out differently then he imagined.

It had grown deeper, and gained a note to it that seemed to be trying to sound smooth and silky. It failed, though, because his throat mangled the sound, and it came out crackling and scratchy, like an out of tune radio. His throat showed its displeasure at having to mangle human speech by giving him a deep, heavy scratch against its walls, the sensation burning strangely and causing him to give one, strangled cough before he gained control of himself again.

Still, the owl seemed to almost gain a note of warmth in its eyes. He might be wrong, though - he was better at reading human emotion.

To his surprise, the owl didn’t flap away when he took the letter. Instead, it stared at him, and he got the sense that it was trying to look expectant.

“Okay, okay, I’ll read it,” he mumbled. He promptly wanted to slap himself in the head for descending to the point that he was talking to  _ owls _ .

Though, in all fairness, owls are pretty awesome. In the popular meaning of the word, not, ‘deserving awe’.

Then again, they probably deserved awe, too.

He shook his head to clear his scattering thoughts, and pulled his attention to the letter. He flipped it over out of instinct, trying to solve the odd mystery of the being or beings who sent letters,  _ via owl _ , to an abandoned house. Maybe they didn’t get the memo that the owners moved?

And were eccentric or rich enough to use owls as letter carriers?

Hey, it was  _ his _ best explanation.

And yet, as he flipped the letter over, that notion was quickly destroyed by the address on the back.

_ Thomas Morningstar, _

_ The floor, _

_ Abandoned house on street corner, _

_ Surrey. _

He snorted at the accurate summation of his living quarters, but then froze.

_ Someone knows I’m living here. _

_ They know my name. _

_ They know I sleep on the floor. _

_...And they sent me a letter. _

It seemed that, with every detail he learned about this letter, his confusion and questions grew exponentially.

He shock off the curiosity, deciding the only was to sate it was to  _ read the damn letter _ . He flipped it over and broke the seal, noting as he did that the person sending it, along with using the old-fashioned system of  _ bird mail _ , used the old-fashioned wax seal instead of those weird strips that you lick to seal a letter.

Maybe it was a letter from the fourteen hundreds, sent forward in time by a magician?

He drew out the letter, and another piece of paper came out with it. It fell to the floor, and he gave it a glance before redirecting his attention to the curiosity he had on his hands. He opened the surprisingly thick paper, which seemed a tint too yellow, and found neat script staring back at him.

**. . . . .**

Hogwarts School  _ of _ Witchcraft  _ and _ Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

_ (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, _

_ Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) _

> Dear Mr. Morningstar,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.

Yours Sincerely,

> _ Minerva McGonagall _

> Deputy Headmistress

**. . . . .**

Now, it may be relevant to note that that letter has been laid out for you, in its entirety, for convenience's sake. If we were to take Tom’s perspective to a fault, you would find that he stopped reading the letter, if only for a moment, on the fourth word. He did his best to continue, but found himself looking up several times despite himself.

For a normal child in Tom’s circumstance, his shock would be conveyed by a dropped open jaw. And Tom, indeed, was showing his equivalent of that.

A widening of the eyes, and two thrown up eyebrows.

After finally managing to finish the letter, he put it gingerly on the floor, and simply stared at the wall for a long time. The owl showed not a sign of its impatience, and instead sat, patiently, waiting for the boy to overcome his shock.

If anyone knew Tom in a friendly capacity, this moment would likely unsettle them a bit. The boy was even less expressive than usual, still as a statue. His fingers, despite their usual twitching and curling whenever Tom did nothing, were as still as the rest of him for the first time in a long time. And his eyes had lost even that harsh iron shine, and now showed not a hint of being anything more than vibrantly coloured sculpted stone.

But, finally, Tom’s head fell back, and he gave a kind of broken half-chuckle.

He didn’t bother looking at the list. Not yet, anyway.

_ Magic. _

_...It would certainly explain a lot. _

How badly Tom wanted to just write this off as a joke a this expense, but he couldn’t. And the largest reason was probably that one. It certainly  _ would _ explain a lot.

Why the Dursleys thought he was a freak.

Where his scar came from, and why it never healed.

And, of course, the…  _ incidents _ .

There were other reasons he couldn’t just write this off, of course. It was unlikely that anyone would go this far just to prank him. Very few people had this much time on their hands. It was a touch too creative, as well. A vaguely menacing  _ you’re one of us _ kind of letter would be easier to send, and likely, at least as far as these people were concerned, just as effective.

And plus, who uses an  _ owl _ to deliver a letter just for a prank?

He stared down at the yellowish letter, sitting innocently on the ground. And then, he walked on carefully controlled feet to the left side of his house, in the middle of the abandoned kitchen.

For some unknown reason, the kitchen had a wooden floor. Inconvenient if you lived there, but for him…

He knelt on the ground, and counted out the boards carefully. He could go by instinct, but wrenching up the wrong one could leave the ground permanently disfigured, and the genius of his hiding spot would be ruined by the obvious sign of something suspicious.

_ Eleven… twelve… thirteen. _

_ And down one… two… three. _

He wrenched up the board with a single, swift motion, and the now familiar piercing screech of displaced ground rose into the air for that single moment, before dissipating, harmless.

He reached into the hiding place, moved aside his candles and match, and lifted up his now prized notebook. And, laying innocently underneath, sat what may have been his most prized possession.

A single, sleek blue pen, with the label of some long forgotten plumbing company printed on it.

Perhaps not valuable to you or me, but to Tom?

Not valuable.  _ Invaluable _ .

He strode over to the letter once again, and turned over the piece of parchment. He  _ refused _ to waste a precious notebook page on this.

He took off the cap of the pen, and chewed on the back of it thoughtfully as he tried to decide what tone to go for. Finally, he threw caution to the wind, and just put his pen to the parchment and began to write.

> _ Headmaster, _

_ I have never understood the tradition of putting ‘dear’ before the name of someone, even if you don’t know them. And thus, as I do not follow rules I don’t understand, I have neglected adding the traditional address. I hope you’ll forgive me my rudeness. _

_ I confess, to the first time in years, to being immensely intrigued. I still believe the most likely reason behind this is that it is a cruel joke made by cruel men, and yet, I find myself questioning you and this school you claim to represent. _

_ I suddenly received a letter in the mail, or rather, by the extravagant and utterly inconvenient method of owls. It claims to be from a school of magic, and claims that I have the ability to learn this magic. _

_ And yet, nobody comes to introduce me to this magic. Nobody comes to assuage me my possible fears. Nobody even comes to keep me from whacking a live owl that just flew through my window with a broom. _

_ You claim this to be my birthright, and yet you also claim to have kept it hidden from me? I confess myself concerned headmaster, not just by the questionable method of your delivery of this message, but also by your questionable morals in keeping it from me until this point. I confess myself surprised and resentful of this cloak-and-dagger approach to introducing me to my heritage. _

_ And, on top of that, I know not where to buy the materials you want me to get within the month, how to come to this school, or how I am possibly to afford it. I don’t even know if you charge to go to the school at all, or even if you are willing to provide me these necessary tools for my education for free upon arrival. _

_ I, again, request that you forgive me my rudeness. But the way you have handled my introduction to this world you claim to be the representative of is not only confusing, it also strikes me as more than a touch immoral. _

_ Though perhaps it is merely some error in paperwork. Perhaps lines got crossed, and you intended a more proper introduction, or perhaps even did not intend to send me a letter at all. After all, I know nothing of who you are and what your world is like. _

_ But, if this is not a joke and I am capable of it despite a lack of funds, then yes, I would be happy to go to your school. _

_ Forgive me, _

> _ Thomas Morningstar _

He capped the pen again, and re-folded the letter with careful movements. He glanced at the owl, glanced at the letter, and bit his lip.

It was  _ unbelievably _ rude and presumptuous. It was brash. It was, really, just plain stupid.

But it had been  _ so long _ since he had had  _ fun _ . What was life, if not at opportunity to throw caution to the wind? What was the use of his survival instinct, if he couldn’t occasionally have some fun with the life he had preserved?

And so, he threw caution to the wind, and handed the letter to the owl. It gave him a single, approving hoot, before flapping off into the warm summer’s night.

He sat back against his legs, entering a position that looked almost like he was about to initiate a prayer. An idea that, honestly, was not out of character for Tom.

He wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he was fairly sure that someone had heard his birthday wishes. And they had answered.

And plus, if magic did indeed exist, then so might God. Who knows?

He would have to look it up, if someone responded to his letter and told him where to get those damn books.

_ Man, I really am stupid. Since when was I a thrill-seeker? _

_...Hah. ‘Cloak-and-dagger approach’. _

Tom gave, yet again, a soft, broken chuckle. And then, he gave a snort.

And, before he could even grasp the sudden welling warmth that was sloshing in his chest, full on, bubbling laughter began to escape his throat.

Tom curled up on the floor, his eyes beginning to well up from the force of the laughter. The snorts were now closer to coughs as his throat rebelled against the sudden onslaught of sounds escaping it where none had done so in years, but he still laughed. And laughed, and laughed,  _ and laughed _ .

His laughing fit continued, until the sun began to set, and his stomach began to threaten to release the few scraps he had scrounged up yesterday. The laughter finally died down to broken hiccups and slight snorts, before a full on coughing fit caused him to curl up once again.

His throat finally had its revenge.

And, after a long time, he fell into a deep, heavy slumber, tears drying and forgotten on his face.

He slept without dreaming for the first time in years.

_...I’m going to go to school again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things are getting interesting.
> 
> And dark. Really dark.
> 
> I'm hoping you're all getting a good idea of Tom's personality by now, but trust me, he will end up showing some signs of the shit he's having to go through here. Again, you have been warned.
> 
> But, on a lighter note, I ask anyone who deigns to read this fic to give me a pairing they want. Preferably with another student, I don't vibe with that student-teacher relationship, but other than that, pretty much anyone in Harry's year is fair game. Well, except Pansy Parkinson - she's just the worst. Sorry.
> 
> Also, can anyone manage to give me a good way for Tom to get the invisibility cloak? I want him to have it, but nothing I can think of makes sense, so he'll probably have to go without.
> 
> -Howard


	3. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom begins a slow and steady rise as we cut to him going to King's Cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail, the almighty J. K.

It was a subtly different Tom Morningstar that walked on heavy feet to Kings Cross Station on the first of September.

His hair was still long, hanging down in a loose ponytail that fell just bellow the small of his back. His clothes were still muggle, and incredibly casual. He was still skinny to the point of sickliness, pale as death, and with eyes that showed practically nothing but an endless field of rolling green waves.

But there were differences. Subtle ones, but ones that instantly gave you a better impression. His once completely yellow stained teeth had been whitened slightly by a month of brushing, his greasy, long hair now washed thoroughly and combed to give off a distinct aristocratic, medieval vibe to the longer hairstyle as opposed to a hippie-like one. He had tied it back, not into an average ponytail like everyone just assumed, but rather a tail that split off into two tails right at the middle, a style that had been well used by wizards in the time before Hogwarts - in the time of Merlin and King Arthur. The casual clothes were no longer ripped and stained with what could be dirt or dried blood, but rather was a simple, dark set t-shirt and jeans, with the exception of his brown jacket that he had been unable to throw out. He had gotten it washed, though. Despite that, it still smelled of books, and leather, and a small hint of gasoline.

On the whole, he actually looked… rather good. For a kid who had been homeless a month ago.

Anyone who thought to glance over at him  _ was _ slightly startled by his appearance though, but it wasn’t because of how  _ he _ looked. Sure, the long hair was a  _ little _ odd, but not overly so, and plus, passerby rarely care about things like that anyway.

No, it was the snake that was curled around his shoulders that gave them cause for alarm.

“Hey!”

Tom glanced to his left, only barely repressing the urge to pin the boy to a wall with a dagger to his throat. He was met with the grinning faces of two red-headed children, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Nice snake!”

“We have a snake-whisper in our midst, George.”

“That we do, George.”

“Nope. I’m Fred.”

“Semantics.”

Tom’s eyes darted between the two like watching a tennis game, and he felt a foreign-feeling grin tug at his lips. He squashed it, though, and instead gave his well-practiced polite, courteous smile to the strangers.

“Thank you. May I ask who you two are?”

They grinned at him, as if they were delighted by the mere  _ chance _ to tell him who they were. They looped an arm around each other’s shoulders, and responded easily,

“I’m Fred,”

“And I’m George,”

“And we’re the Weasley twins, at your service!”

They both mock-bowed, and Tom couldn’t help but snicker.

And then, a wild pack of red heads descended upon him.

“Fabian and Gideon Weasley, we have been worried sick!”

Both twins winced, and turned to face a short, stout woman who was now swatting them upside the head. He ignored the long, loud rant the mother gave them, and instead turned to inspect the family that she was towing behind her like a pack of ducks.

They were all a bit too tall, meaning that, compared to Tom’s short stature, they were at least a head taller, with the exception of a slightly shorter female who looked to be the  _ only _ girl of the pack. One of them seemed to be about Tom’s age, with a smattering of freckles, pale skin (though, compared to Tom, he was positively sun-kissed), and bizarrely long legs. Another seemed older, and was a little taller then the twins. He was staring on with a disappointed, patronizing expression, and Tom instantly had to repress the urge to sneer at him.

Clearly a brown-noser.

And, last but certainly not least, there was a slightly younger looking girl who hadn’t even glanced at him yet, instead looking at the fury of the mother with tired, sympathetic eyes.

Tom was instantly struck with the fact that she was rather good-looking, before squashing the irrelevant thought.

The mother seemed to finally tire of yelling, and instead turned to him with sharp, knowing eyes. She seemed slightly de-railed, however, by the snake sitting on his shoulders.

“Is he dangerous?”

Instantly, the woman seemed apologetic, but he smiled his most charming smile at her to show that there was no harm done.

“She, actually. And trust me, Regina won’t touch your sons.”

The woman instantly relaxed at both his smile and the words themselves, and smiled tiredly back at him.

Nobody seemed to notice he had never actually answered her question.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m Molly Weasley. I trust my sons aren’t bothering you?”

At this, she glared at the boys in question, and Tom caught sight of a wand in her pocket. He smiled his most charming smile again, though there was the slightest vicious edge to it that he hoped they couldn’t notice.

“Oh no, ma’am. As a matter of fact, they were both offering to help me get my trunk on the Hogwarts Express after we got on the platform. It  _ is _ rather heavy, so I’m grateful for the offer.”

At this, he smiled what he hoped appeared to be a thankful smile to the twins, though he knew they would both catch the mocking edge it contained.

“ _ Perhaps I was wrong, _ ” Regina hissed from his shoulder, making the youngest ginger son turn concerned eyes onto it and the mother to do the same. “ _ You clearly  _ **_do_ ** _ belong in Slytherin. _ ”

He grinned at her, macking sure it conveyed his ‘I told you so’ as clearly as speech.

He wouldn’t reveal his parseltongue so early. He was playing his cards close to his chest.

“Are you  _ sure _ she isn’t dangerous?”

He turned to the youngest boy, who had just squeaked that sentence, and smiled tightly.

“Not to my friends. But if you, say, tried to poison me...”

He let the sentence trail off, before finishing happily,

“She’s  _ quite _ loyal. And venomous. Very venomous.”

The family paled, though the twins grinned approvingly.

“But, she knows my wishes quite well enough, so no, none of you are in danger.”

He could see the doubt crawling in their eyes, and happily took the chance to show off.

“Perhaps a demonstration, then?”

He reached a hand to Regina, and she seemed to understand his meaning without a word. It was what he appreciated about her, above the more dangerous breeds in Magical Menagerie. She slithered happily into his hand and curled up into a circle, making her look like a particularly green (and beautiful, in his opinion,) diadem.

And then, he walked over to the young girl, and put the snake atop her head.

The girl paled dramatically, but the snake sat so stilly upon her hair that it seemed to assuage her fears slightly. He dropped to one knee and took the girl’s hand, kissing it dramatically, and glanced up, head still bent.

“A crown for the queen.”

The girl blushed beet-red all the way to the tips of her ears, and he reached forward and let Regina curl once again around his arm. He stood, brushing pebbles off one pant leg, and smiled at the family, now looking on in slight awe, slight fear.

“See? Harmless.”

The family didn’t respond, so he turned to the twins, now grinning wildly and looking at him in what appeared to be mock-worship.

“So, shall we board the train, then? I do believe it will be leaving before long.”

The family before him started, glancing at their watches. He wondered if they were magical watches.

“Damn, Gred, he’s right!”

‘Gred’ glanced contritely at his brother. “Idiot, I’m Forge!”

“Semantics, brother. And plus, neither of us are clever enough to tell.”

“True that, brother, true that.”

Tom smiled tiredly at the bickering, and stepped easily over to the barrier between nine and ten. He repressed the urge to swallow, and instead stepped happily up to the barrier, only giving a short glance to make sure the crowd had thinned, before vanishing into the stone.

* * *

For a moment, he was surrounded by thick, heavy blackness. He was uncomfortably reminded of his dreamscape, but was comforted by the fact that the black mist was too thick and solid to allow him to see rolling, endless fields. He continued to step on, not a hitch in his path, and came out the other side.

And his eyes widened slightly, eyebrows thrown up.

Before him was a bustling crowd, thick with black, dark green and velvet robes. The tops of witch’s hats poked up from the crowd, and children having heartfelt goodbyes with their guardians surrounded him.

He averted his eyes from the sight, fingers twitching harder, and focused instead on the more surprising aspects of the station.

The train was an obvious one. It was painted a cartoonish scarlett, and dark smoke billowed from the top of it. He could see children bustling into compartments from the window, and trunks clattered heavily against the metallic steps leading into the door.

The signs of magic, though, took another moment to notice.

Owls screeched from short distances, and toads croaked happily. A cat curled once around his legs, and he smiled a genuine smile at the feline. He spotted a vulture hat in the distance, and plenty of parents were shrinking the trunks of their kids. Sparks danced happily in the air from children flicking their wands, and someone had set off some kind of magical sparkler in spherical form, which was now rolling around on the ground shooting off multicolored sparks. Though, judging by the children crowding it, the sparks were harmless.

He even spotted more than one pipe, but no cigarettes. It seemed nicotine would invade any environment, magical or not.

The twins (he had to keep himself from mentally capitalizing  _ twins _ ) came through the barrier less easily then he did, and he made sure to swerve out the way of them before they walked into his trunk. They stopped easily enough, though, and turned to him with broad grins.

Though the grins faltered when he glanced pointedly at his trunk.

“Mate, surely you don’t actually expect-”

He could see the other twin was about to pick up the sentence, but cut him off.

“You to fail at carrying my trunk? No, I don’t. I expect two strapping boys such as yourselves to carry this burden easily.”

They both cringed a bit, but, with great reluctance, grabbed his trunk and wheeled it to the stairs. They heaved it up onto the floor of the train, and he grinned his cheapest, sleaziest dime-store grin at them.

“ _ Thank you, _ boys. I do hope you have a lovely goodbye to your mother, and make sure to give her my  _ undying _ gratitude at producing such kind young souls as yourselves.”

They scowled at him, and he grinned back.

“You’ll pay for this, you know.”

“Indeed you will,” the other said, equally gravely, “or my name isn’t Forge.”

His grin didn’t falter.

“You are aware, boys, that retaliation will start a war.”

They grinned back, viciously.

“Indeed we do.” They chorused.

Tom offered them a hand.

“I look forward to meeting you on the field of battle, boys.” He grinned again, this time with a mocking edge. “Unless, of course, you just accept you fate and surrender?”

They shook his hand, gripping a touch too tightly. Their grins betrayed their enjoyment, though - and the sparkle of challenge in their eyes promised him good competition.

“Never.” They said together.

“Then may the best prankster win,” Tom said, his smile dying as he spoke with complete, genuine sincerity. He grabbed his trunk, and gave his parting shot.

“And the worse prankster **_s_ ** lose.”

* * *

Tom  _ finally _ found the compartment he just  _ knew _ he would find, and opened the glass door without a trace of hesitance.

“Good afternoon. Do you mind if I sit here?”

He smiled his most charming smile at the arrangement of boys and girls alike, and waited for the inevitable.

You must understand that, before this moment, Tom had read enough books on etiquette to understand what he would have to do here. He could have easily used that knowledge to pose as a pureblood for one of the many dead families, maybe even a member of the twenty-eight, claiming to be a bastard child whose mother had died in childbirth.

It would have been easy, but he thought that this would give him a better chance, in the end.

Because hiding the fact that he was a muggleborn ( _ mudblood _ , he mentally corrected, even while hating himself for it,) would just mean that someone else would  _ inevitably _ learn that fact. And, once that happened, it became completely inevitable that they would use it to blackmail him, and his empire would already be too well established to build from the ground up. So he would have to accept the blackmail, and have the terms of it grow and grow until eventually the person blackmailing decided it would be easier to just collapse his empire and use it as a catalyst to their own power.

So, instead, he was going the more tedious, but safer route. It was, admittedly, an odd way of doing it that he had planned, though step one had already happened without a hitch.

Step one: Find the Slytherin compartment and introduce yourself in the most muggle way possible.

And the faces, predictably, sneered at him.

“No.”

He turned to the blond kid who had just spoken up, and raked him up and down once.

He was obviously a Malfoy, from the blonde hair to the pompous attitude to the two bodyguards. He was also spoiled and doted upon something fierce, and probably completely dedicated to his father’s ideals.

He probably called him that, too.  _ Father _ .

Well, he  _ was _ dedicated to those ideals. For now.

He grinned at the Malfoy, showing his slightly yellow teeth. Malfoy sneered harder at him, but he cut him off at the outset.

“Are you sure about that, heir Malfoy? Cutting off potential Slytherin alliances at this stage is not wise.”

And, instantly, he could see the newfound indecision. God, how easy they were to read.

Before, Malfoy had had him pegged for a mudblood. But now, he had shown courtesy by addressing him under his title, and even shown a bit of cunning by making it clear he expected to be in Slytherin.

He might easily be a powerful halfblood. Or even a pureblood who doesn’t care too much about tradition.

_ So easy. _

“You know my name, then. Who are  _ you _ ?”

He grinned a vicious grin at him. On the outside, though, it was completely polite and courteous.

“Tom Morningstar, at your service.”

And the die was cast.

He could tell, right away, who was going to be competition. Malfoy was the leader of the bunch for his blood and competent attitude, but he was clearly brash and easily offended. He didn’t even catch the entirety of the sentence - he assumed the message was only an introduction, and, once his name was out, the important stuff was done, since he was now obviously a halfblood with a witch mother at best.

He could also tell, though, who was clever enough to already be analyzing every word out of someone’s mouth, and even the movements they made. And they easily pieced together the bow, and the postscript that usually was just a house name.

_ A bow. And ‘at your service’. The message was clear to anyone who could be a worthy Slytherin. _

He could tell that only three people in the compartment caught it. A young, impeccably dressed, beautiful in a cold way woman who he guessed was a Greengrass from the distinctive eye colour. A young, dark-brown-haired black boy with cold, calculating eyes who he couldn’t quite pin down but, if he had to guess, would have pinned a Zabini. And a young, lighter-brown-haired boy with wide eyes and a touch of a tan.

That last one and an average looking girl were the only ones whose family he couldn’t pin down.

He couldn’t offer a family whose name he toted. Instead, he could offer his  _ services _ .

But this was the tricky part. He had to make sure the message was clear, and they didn’t think he was offering them anything other than what he was.

It was a touch blunt, but…

“Did you know, heir Malfoy, that in muggle religion, the Devil was once the right hand man to God before he was cast out?”

Malfoy clearly thought he was spouting nonsense, and he could also tell who was clever enough to do anything muggle, and thus, could catch the rather blunt meaning he was trying to give them.

Zabini clearly did, as did the brown haired tan boy he  _ still _ couldn’t pin down, but he couldn’t tell with the Greengrass. The spark in her eye could have been irritation  _ or _ comprehension. But, either way, someone had caught his message.

Blunt as it had been.

Malfoy opened his mouth, obviously to tell him to get out, but Zabini interrupted him. Tom wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to climb the ladder and wanted Tom by his side, or if it was respect for the Slytherin message he had given, but he would know by tomorrow.

If Zabini  _ wasn’t _ looking to climb the ladder, Malfoy would have his message by the feast. If he  _ was _ …

Well, didn’t Malfoy already have a right hand? Why not take Tom for himself?

“Why don’t you sit down, Tom?” Zabini said genially, gesturing to the seat next to Malfoy.

Tom smiled his most polite, bland smile at him.

“Thank you.”

Meanwhile, everyone else in the compartment seemed flabbergasted. Several were staring at Zabini with full-on wide-eyed stares and gaping mouths. Tom wasn’t sure what to make of  _ that _ , but tucked it into the back of his mind for later.

He sat down easily, sliding his trunk into the top rows as he did, and glanced pointedly at Zabini. Zabini smiled back, before offering his hand.

“Blaise Zabini, heir to house Zabini.”

Tom took the hand, and shook it once.

“Tom Morningstar.”

And so, the introductions went. Tom soon learned that he had been correct about every house assumption. The blonde girl was indeed a Greengrass, going by the name ‘Daphne’, and Malfoy’s sycophants were a Crabbe and Goyle respectively, going by the names ‘Vincent’ and ‘Greggory’. The girl who was practically clung to Malfoy’s arm was a Parkinson, going by the horrid name ‘Pansy’, and the dog-faced girl across from him was a Bulstrode, ‘Millicent’. Though Pansy called her ‘Millie’, but it really seemed more like an insult, especially with the cloyingly sweet tone she gave it.

Apparently, the most normal looking girl there was a  _ Davis _ , of all things, but Tom didn’t let his surprise show, instead shaking Tracey’s hand without hesitance and smiling happily at her. She seemed a touch surprised at that, but it only showed in a slight widening of the eyes, and that might be more because of the scars on his hand.

The brown-haired boy with a tan was a Nott, which made much more sense. He seemed more than content to drift in the background, though, and his large eyes and hair flopping into them reminded Tom uncomfortably of a wet dog.

And with that, the introductions were made, and Tom smiled happily at the assorted Slytherins. But, before he had a chance to try and strike up conversation, Malfoy butted in.

“Well, as I was  _ saying _ -” he cast a dark glance at Tom, “I’m rather looking forward to potions. My godfather, Severus Snape, teaches it, and -”

Now, let it be known that Tom is  _ not _ someone who it prone to outbursts of emotion. But, in select circumstance, he excuses himself for it.

It’s only human, after all.

And so, Tom is not ashamed of the fact that he had to repress a gasp there. Nobody was even attempting to look at him, though - mostly everyone was latched onto Malfoy’s words, and Zabini was staring out the window silently. That was probably for the best.

Because he didn’t want to embarrass himself by fanboying all over Snape.

But can you  _ blame _ him?

_ The youngest potions master in a century! Is teaching! At the school I’m going to!!! _

Tom tried to repress his enthusiasm, he really did, but the only thing he could do was get something to distract himself.

So he did.

Tom grabbed his trunk without a word, pulling it back down. Honestly, he should have kept it on him at all times anyway, but for some reason he had packed it. Regina curled anxiously around his stomach, where she had slithered as he walked down the corridor to the Slytherin compartment, as Tom unlatched his trunk and reached into the first drawer, pulling out his leather-bound notebook.

He noticed Zabini glance at him curiously, but he just pulled out his newest sleek fountain pen and got to work.

Before him, on the page, stood an island in the middle of a storming sea, with a great figure looming atop it. Small, torn shapes whisked around it, and the iron bars littering the walls glinted with the strike of lightning in the background.

Azkaban.

Tom shivered dramatically, grinning at his handiwork, before setting the pen and beginning to add some finishing touches.

* * *

“Tom? What about you?”

Tom glanced up for the first time in about ten minutes, neglecting the drawing before him. In his quest for something to ease his wandering mind, he had begun a new sketch, but it was in the preliminary stages at best, and so he felt no guilt at leaving it hanging.

“‘What about me’ what?”

Zabini smiled blandly at him, though there was a spark of irritation in his eyes. “What classes are you looking forward to?”

Tom tapped a pen against his bottom lip thoughtfully before answering.

“Charms.”

There was a chorus of snorts and snickers, and Tom smiled blandly back at them. Zabini didn’t snicker, but his eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

That was clearly not the answer he’d been expecting, and it clearly pissed him off a bit. Before he got a word out, though, Malfoy cut in.

“That’s such a  _ mudblood _ response, too. Why is it that those of  _ lesser rank _ always love charms, Davis?”

Tracey stiffened, eyes closing off all emotion like steel curtains had closed over them, but Tom answered easily for her.

“Why, because it’s the closest thing to Dark Arts, of course.”

Silence.

And then Malfoy bust out laughing. More than one person followed him, but Zabini had narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at Tom.

“Why do you say that, Tom?”

And the laughter died quickly. Tom was quickly picking up on the fact that Zabini speaking up was something which shut all mouths.

“Well, of course, when it comes to  _ fields _ of magic, they are quite literally on opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“Obviously,” Malfoy muttered.

“But when it comes to  _ intent _ , they can be quite alike.”

He smiled another bland smile at the assorted younglings, who were all looking at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“For instance,” he said genially, “the cleaning charm,  _ scourgio _ , is often used by parents to wash out children’s mouths. But it never goes beyond that. However, if instead of lifting the charm when you were done with the punishment, you  _ enhanced _ it, you could easily choke someone to death with bubbles, and drown them quite easily. Or you could wash their eyeballs until they were blind.”

“Or the refilling charm,” he went on, when the compartment had fallen into blissful silence and everyone was beginning to stare with a combination of fascination and horror, “which just transports liquid from one container to another. You could easily use it to fill someone’s stomach with flaming gasoline, or someone’s veins with molten silver. Molten silver would be particularly useful on a werewolf, even during full moon, if you had it on hand.”

“Or you can use the summoning charm to summon someone’s heart and eyes. It would take a lot of power, but it could be done. And since there isn’t any Dark Arts class, the most useful methods of torture and execution will definitely be found in charms.”

“And plus,” Tom added, “I’m  _ quite good _ at charms, anyway.”

And there was dead silence.

Tom went back to his drawing, knowing that the first step in his newfound empire had just been taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...huh.
> 
> This story is getting updated much faster, and I think it'll be generally more action-packed then the other running story I have at the moment. SGM is more a... slow burn, character driven fic, but this one will be full of espionage and politics and the like.
> 
> Really, I actually like where this story is going quite a bit, and I like the contrast between the Harry in SGM and the Harry in this. It's like one Harry is more Tom Riddle, and one is more James Potter.
> 
> But, trust me, I do not plan on having Harry be evil. It may seem like I do here, but I don't. But he does have to convince the other Slytherins he means business here and now, especially with the deficit he's playing at. You may think, though - 'wait. why hasn't he already learned he's Harry?'
> 
> Trust me. That will be adressed.
> 
> Patience, young ones.
> 
> Again, suggest me those pairings. Tom may seem asexual, but he's literally eleven. Give me some time, and some suggestions.
> 
> -Howard


	4. Where's Our Savior?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The table divides, the air thickens, and gossip spreads.

“Slytherin!”

Tom grinned happily, standing with the ease of someone who could begin running at a moment’s notice. McGonagall lifted the hat from his head, and he put his hands into his pockets as he sauntered easily to the Slytherin table.

It was clear, from the way he walked and moved, that he was  _ not _ a pureblood. Or, at least, that he didn’t have the traditions of one. He moved with an ease and slight slouch of someone with total confidence in himself, unlike the perfectly controlled movements of someone trying to hide themselves from the world. He may want to keep his cards close to his chest, but his competence was practically radiating from him whenever he moved.

Malfoy and his minions had already been sorted into Slytherin, along with Bulstrode, Greengrass and Tracey. He sat across from Malfoy and his cronies, and next to Greengrass. She glanced at him, eyes unreadable, but she didn’t dispute his decision.

Tom wondered if they even knew that they were subconsciously dividing themselves exactly how he had expected them to. Tracey was on Greengrass’s other side, and Tom already knew that Zabini would sit with them. Parkinson, though, would go with Malfoy.

Tom wondered if Nott was clever enough to notice the divide, and, if he was, which side he would choose.

He drummed his fingers once against the table, before picking up the spoon before him with a thoughtful look. Bulstrode gave him a look that clearly indicated he was crazy, but Tom read what he wanted to the second he saw the silverware.

Or, rather,  _ non _ -silver ware.

“...Huh.”

“What is it,  _ Morningstar _ ?”

There was mocking plain to hear in Malfoy’s voice, as if the name was some kind of insult. The only problem being that Tom would never be insulted by his name, since  _ he _ had chosen it.

And he rather liked it, thank you.

“Just… a sudden puzzle has revealed itself to me, and I’m wondering how to solve it. And if I should.”

Malfoy gave him another  _ you’re crazy _ look, but Greengrass looked down at the silverware with a furrowed brow. Tom smiled slightly.

Already, the sides were dividing. It was clear Malfoy  _ hadn’t _ gotten the message despite the fact that Zabini had had optimal time to give it to him.

And so, it was war. And Tom would be Zabini’s general. Tom wasn’t foolish enough to think Zabini  _ trusted _ him, but he was optimistic enough to hope that, at some point, he would grow to.

“Nothing  _ seems _ to be wrong with the silverware, Tom. What is it?”

Tom grinned inwardly.  _ Tom _ . It was clear that Greengrass wasn’t one to fall into blood prejudice.

“Really, Gr- Daphne? You’re more observant then that. Haven’t you read  _ Hogwarts: A History _ ?”

Greengrass’s expression made it clear she  _ hadn’t _ , but Tom left her to stew over the issue as Nott was sorted into Slytherin without a hitch. He walked over and, without a thought, set himself one down from Tom, leaving a space between them for Zabini.

_ Well, the more the merrier. _

As the sorting continued, Tom let his gaze wander to the head table, and drift lazily down the row of teachers.

One of them was short and excitable, practically bouncing on his seat. Tom thought he could see a bit of goblin blood in the sharp teeth, and that would certainly explain the shortness. Another appeared to be rake-thin, with large, luminous eyes hidden behind massive eyeglasses. There was an empty seat, as well, presumably for Mcgonagall as it was right next to the headmaster’s seat. And, directly to the left of that empty seat, was a man in a purple turban. He turned to Tom with an oddly anxious expression.

And that, of course, was when his scar lit fire.

Tom tried to repress the sudden urge to slap a hand to his forehead and scream. He managed to catch most of it, but he couldn’t quite stop the slight flinch and twitch of his fingers.

Nott turned to him worriedly, and even Greengrass glanced at him with a pensive expression. Tom remained silent, though, as the pain vanished as easily as it had come. Tom shook off the sensation, filing it into the back of his mind for later, and returned his gaze to the head table.

And saw the face he was looking for, just to the left of the twitchy turban-wearer.

_...Well, I guess Malfoy was telling the truth. _

It wasn’t his first sight of the potions master - he had seen plenty of photos of him in potions journals and books delving into the history of potions. Of course, the photos couldn’t quite depict the way those black eyes hollowed with perfect expressionlessness, and the subtler details you could only notice in person. Things like the length of his fingers, and the sharpness of his cheekbones.

Tom thought he might even be attractive, if it weren’t for that God-awful hair.

He turned easily back to the sorting when Snape finally noticed the burning gaze piercing him. He watched pensively as Zabini finally stepped up, and was sorted without a hitch into Slytherin.

Zabini sauntered from the stool, and slipped into the space between Tom and Nott. Tom followed the example of the purebloods as they all turned expectantly to the Headmaster.

The man in question stood up, and Tom really inspected him for the first time. His hair was bright white, with a beard hanging low enough to be tucked into his belt. He was wearing eye-watering lavender robes, and his eyes twinkled brightly behind half-moon spectacles.

“Before we dig in, I have a few words to say. And here they are; Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak!”

“Thank you!”

Raucous applause.

Tom decided to forego asking anyone why the hell they would applaud at that. Any answer he could possibly get would be unsatisfactory, and it was honestly far more fun to stew over the mystery of it himself.

_ Albus Dumbledore, crazy headmaster. _

Tom decided, right there and then, that Dumbledore was someone to keep an eye on. The man was one of the most powerful wizards of all time, worked with a world famous alchemist, and had defeated the last dark lord, Grindelwald, in a one versus one duel. And yet, he seemed like a perfect, grandfatherly harmless old man. Slightly senile, but heartfelt.

The mask truly was one of the best Tom had ever seen, purely because  _ nobody even seemed to realize it was on. _

His jaw didn’t drop when he saw the food on the table. There was a tiny moment of the slightest surprise - he hadn’t expected it to come  _ quite _ so quickly - but he had long since read about the tradition of using house elves to cook the food and send it out.

He resolved to find the kitchens as quickly as he could. House elves would make useful allies - all the more so because no pureblood ever seemed to realize that.

He picked up the longest, sharpest serrated knife and began to cut up a steak with perfect manners.

“So -  _ Morningstar. _ What family is your mother from, then?”

Malfoy’s tone was as kind as ever.

“Not one you’ve heard of, Malfoy. I’m muggleborn.” He responded, not unkindly but with just a bit of sharpness. As if daring Malfoy to question him on this.

He saw Greengrass stiffen next to him, just a little. The corners of his lip turned up a bit, in a facsimile of a sharp smirk, and he sent her a glance. He would like to have Greengrass as an ally, of course - but the girl had clearly thought he was halfblood at least, which meant that the reveal of his less than stellar parentage came with just the smallest risk of Greengrass defecting.

Greengrass didn’t return his glance, though. Tom assumed that it was a sign of acceptance.

Malfoy sneered slightly, clearly not having expected this answer either. Nott blinked, his wide, baby blue eyes still a bit too large. Zabini didn’t react.

Bulstrode, though, sent him a glare so fierce that the phrase  _ if looks could kill _ popped into his head for the first time in at least three years.

“I  _ knew _ you were a filthy  _ mudblood.” _

He couldn’t help his blink. Malfoy, too, sent Bulstrode a slight glance.

Tom reached up with a napkin and sedately dabbed some of the spittle from his face.

“Malfoy, could you keep your dog leashed? It’s slobbering on me.” He said politely, turning to the blonde in question without even a hint that his request was anything other than polite.

He got his first reaction from Zabini, then. His mask cracked for just the smallest, barely noticeable moment. If Tom hadn’t been looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have even seen it.

Malfoy sneered at him strongly - but he knew, as well as Tom did, that Bulstrode had toed the line of what was acceptable. No matter his blood status, he had been accepted among the Slytherins - and this was the  _ public table. _ Snakes showed no weakness,  _ especially _ not infighting.

“Bulstrode.” The blonde growled quietly, malice seeping into his tone as he glared at Tom - but he still wrapped a hand around the girl’s shoulder.

Bulstrode clearly didn’t want to back down - but a glance from Malfoy was clearly law among their little pack.

He could already see gossip spreading, among the older students, looking for potential among the new ranks.

Tom resisted the smirk tugging at his lips.

_ He _ was spreading.

_ His _ potential was spreading.

And nobody knew that Harry Potter sat comfortably beneath his skin, as different gossip spread among the other tables.

_ Where’s our savior? _ Was the question the voices whispered.

_ Here. _ Tom wanted to answer.

_ I’m here. _

But he couldn’t be Harry Potter anymore, could he?

He was Tom now.

And there was so much  _ fun _ to be had while it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... hi.
> 
> So. Apparently updates will be slow for this fic. This is the shortest chapter yet, excluding the prologue.
> 
> Sorry about that - but hopefully I've made up for that with this little something. A tiny hint about a future plotline, perhaps?
> 
> I wonder how many of you will guess that one instantly. Probably at least one - but who knows?


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